Reflection: In the Mirror

Maybe none of you have these moments, but I do...

The ones where you look in the mirror and see something completely different and separate from reality...

Since the beginning of the year, I've lost about 2 sizes, which isn't a huge amount.  The more remarkable part for me is that I still sometimes look at my reflection in shock.  I'll put on a tried and true shirt, look at my reflection and exclaim, "What happened?"  There's real consternation there.  I think I enjoy the idea of "shrinking."  I even have goals in the back of my mind of shrinking further.  But truly, there's a disconnect somewhere.

I think it happens a lot for us girls, where we get accustomed to being overweight or of sub-optimal beauty, and we look for that in the mirror.  When we see something else staring back at us, we're surprised.  Even if it's good.  Even if it's real.  It reminds me of what a dear friend astutely said once:  "Someday, someone's going to tell you who you are, and you won't be shocked . . . ."

So I got a bit of money for my birthday, with strict instructions to buy myself some new clothes that don't fall off.  To Goodwill I went with my astute friend, shopping for new jeans and maybe a top or two.  I took 2 pairs of jeans into the fitting room, and seriously doubted my eyes when it didn't look like my butt was sagging.  The pants looked good.

What?

Friend confirmed the jeans were winners.  Now to search out shirts . . .  and again I enter the fitting room, expecting lackluster or even bad results.  But no, Friend assures me both options are great.  "It doesn't make me look dumpy?"  I ask.  "No," she answers with an eye roll.

Foiled again by ye olde self-image.  I went into that fitting room expecting to see a girl who didn't fit the clothes.  Yeah, the old self is supposedly dying.  Daily.  But I really think this thing gets resurrected daily--if not momentarily.  In short, I'm losing weight, but I'm keeping it on the inside.  Might as well keep only funhouse mirrors around, for all the good real ones do me.

How utterly ridiculous.  Counter-intuitive.  Counter-productive.  Counter to reality.  Someone (another astute person in my life) asked once, "Isn't it wonderful when our experience aligns with reality?"  Wouldn't it be great if the girl in the mirror were the same girl we saw there?  It's still something on the horizon, and it is my hope that your self gets reflected on the outside, undistorted.

I remember (from my brother's tutelage) in the DC universe that Bizarro is the distorted clone of Superman.  His skin is gray, and his "S" emblem is backwards.  He uses Tarzan English, and he's usually depicted as more than a little dense.  He is Superman's less than mirror image.  You name it, Bizarro is less than the epitome that Superman represents. . . .  This should be sounding familliar to you.  Don't take the metaphor too far, but sometimes we see ourselves as Bizarro when our loved ones see Superman.  We are our own worst critics, right?

Booooooooooo.

Now for a startling maneuver:   we look in the mirror, saying, "I am beautiful.  I am lovely" (If a Man Answers, 1962).  Shocking, I know.  We might start to believe it.  Our blind spots might shift from their current locations.  We might see loveliness even in bad lighting and unflattering angles.  It's just shocking enough to turn our reflected world on its ear.  And that's really all we're trying to do:  make our reflections match reality.

Remember

Remember.

The chorus word God tells His people.  Remember who He is and what He's done.  Remember who they are in relation to and because of Him.

Um, me too.

I stand convinced I've been struggling with my identity so much for so long becuase I forget.  That also lines up with what God told me last fall:  Don't keep finding out who you are only to forget again.

I run around forfeiting my territory and my rightful claims on God's promises.  As a result, I go grasping for any facsimile that looks good at the time.  I'm left weak, bitter, adrift.  No wonder James 1:5-8 cuts me like a knife.  It's meant to.

No wonder I feel abandoned.  I've haven't been left; I've left.  That's the crux of the issue.  I run over every parcel of land, screaming, "God's left me.  He's failed me."  The fact is, I've deserted the place He prepared for me, where there is shade from the sun and cool water to drink.  If His embrace is my shield (Genesis 15:1), I've left His embrace over and over.

Then I get attacked.

When I leave Him, peace leaves me.  I'm open season for old attacks:  rejection, anger, pride, doubt.  Wow.  I don't know that I've ever seen it this starkly before, sans altar experience.  I've somewhat identified parallels between my relationship with God and Gomer's with Hosea.  Ouch.

Create in me a clean heart, Oh God,
And renew a right spirit within me.
Cast me not away from Thy presense, Oh Lord,
And take not Thy holy spirit from me.
Restore unto me the joy of Thy salvation,
And renew a right spirit within me.

"When the pattern is right, the glory will fall." --Joe Oden

God, I want a new pattern.

Taken from a prayer written on 27 March 2011.

Classified: Personal

Ever go people watching and make up an entire backstory for someone?  One random Friday night, my friend and I went to a restaurant in the city and had such fun watching the waitor and apparent manager of a restaurant, we created an entire story for them.

Daniel:

Loves fishing, making pottery, going to art galleries, playing checkers on weekends with grandpa.
Rides vintage clunkery Vespa.
Co-owns biz because he loves Theresa.
Afraid of color (wears black all the time).
French derivation; immigrated young, so he has a little bit of accent.
Secret talent: juggling.
Great laugh, self-deprecating.
Impatient but always running late.
Careless with money.
Quit smoking 2 yrs ago.
Horrible dancer.

Theresa:

Loves to read, jazz, old movies, bittersweet chocolate, hot pink roses.
Bicycles everywhere.
Hates pants.
Has eyebrows done every 2 weeks.
Hates the color green; used to be CPA.
Lets emotions get bottled up inside.
Looks forward to tutoring students every Monday afternoon.
Never wears sandals (child ballerina, has neglected feet since).
More than social drinker but has decreased frequency and quantity.
Secret talent: macarena.
Adores her cat, Charlie; she volunteers at humane society.

"The names have been changed to protect my fiction."

Question of Identity (Cardboard, Vol. 2)

If you do not tell the truth about yourself, you cannot tell it about other people. -Virginia Woolf

All too often, we try to pigeonhole someone we've just met based on first impressions or a handful of interactions.  Yet we feel we ourselves are more complex, that we deserve more credit than this.  Unconsciously, we propogate the simplicity though, saying "i'm an accountant" or "i'm a mother" or something else on a list.  We have aided and abetted the misnomer. . . .

Once upon a time, God was chillin' in a burning bush when Moses asked, "Who are You?"  God didn't toss out a job title or a family role; He didn't even really name Himself.  He gave Moses an answer far more complex:  "I am who I am. . . . I AM has sent you" (Exodus 3).

Perhaps I took the movie The Ten Commandments too much to heart.  When I was in elementary school, my teachers gave creative writing assignments with apparently simple questions like "who are you?"  With truly obnoxious glee I would turn to someone and say, "I am Valonna; I am me."  As far as I was concerned, that was answer enough, but I knew the teachers wanted more, so I provided paragraph upon paragraph of information.  Information that could have been applied to any other elementary-aged kid.  To read these juvenile descriptions was not to meet me.  They briefed someone on my hobbies, but didn't show them who I was.

In some cultures (some Native American ones for instance), parents don't name their children for days, months, even years.  Their reasoning is this:  when the baby is born, they do not know this new person, what they like/dislike, how they interact with the world, what feats they will accomplish.  The parents in these societies watch and wait to name the children, and when that name is revealed or earned, it means much more to answer the question, "who are you?" with a name.  The person has their history tied up inside the sounds of their name.  They give their name, and they give a portion of their identity.

But it's still not who they are.

Who are you that is not merely a name, a job title, a family role?  Who are you besides introvert or extravert, ethnicity or religion?  Who are you beyond your height, eye color, and other vital statistics?  Where are you coming from, and where does that have you headed?  What experiences have been so much built into you that they are you?

According to the Gestalt Theory, the whole is more than the sum of its parts.  Do you think maybe there is some essense that makes you you and no one else?  You are more than you think you are.  Are you so busy trying to tell people who you are that you forget that extra little piece?  Do your descriptions easily apply to any other person in your demographic set?

Or maybe you're waiting to know who you're dealing with before you reveal who you are.  Wearing a mask in the meantime.  It's comforting to wait in the wings until you know how the play is going, plotting out the perfect moment to make your entrance.  Once we know the players, we decide who we are.  Which begs the question:  if you decide who you are based on who you're with, how do you know who you are?

Evey Hammond: Who are you?
V: Who? Who is but the form following the function of what and what I am is a man in a mask.
Evey Hammond: Well I can see that.
V: Of course you can. I'm not questioning your powers of observation I'm merely remarking upon the paradox of asking a masked man who he is.
Evey Hammond: Oh. Right.
V: But on this most auspicious of nights, permit me then, in lieu of the more commonplace sobriquet, to suggest the character of this dramatis persona.

In Perfection

Perfectionism is the mother of all things unfinished.

George Lucas is quoted as saying that films are never finished, merely abandoned--an echo of Beethoven's thoughts on composing music.  I cannot speak for everyone, but I can speak for myself and a handful of beautiful people mired in their own plans when I say this:  failing to complete is the very devil in us.

Fear of completion
Fear of failure
Fear of success
Fear of imperfection
Fear of judgement

They all lead to the same thing:  the failure to act.  The goal is not just unmet; it is unmade.  As sure a sign of juvenility as an unmade bed.  But you see we still have to lie in that bed, whether we made it this morning or not.  Rather than always trying and sometimes failing, we have decided never to try and always succeed at failing.

Counterproductive.  Yet the cycle continues.

Perfection does not exist on Earth.  But do we really want it?  Greta Garbo's face is said to have been aesthetically perfect; all the measurements and symmetry were there.  She is seldom called one of the greatest faces of all time, however.  That is more often affixed to the likes of the enigmatic Mona Lisa, whose eyes are too close together and whose mouth is too small.  Her face fascinates us, draws us closer, until she's in danger of fading in the blitzing flashes of tourist cameras.

So, instead of trying to ward off horrible writing, fearing imperfection in my blog posts, I offer this one up.  Virtually slapdash, a literary crime of passion.  The passion for words is what drives me on when the perfectionistic fears swell.  Passion is what began this affair, and I can't let thoughts of failure squelch it.

Brainiactivity

It has been said that I only appreciate the intellectual side of life.  It is true that I luxuriate in the brainy parts of the universe around me, but I wanted to clear the air.  Yes, silliness and I are on friendly terms.

Exhibit A:  I like to text ridiculous slang to the person three feet from me when speaking is more expedient.  It is not unusual to find "wassup?" in my text history.

Exhibit B:  Especially when I know the person calling me, I will frequently answer with "yo!"  And yes, I still sometimes greet my mother with "yo, yo, Ma!"

Exhibit C:  I have a very good Tuscan Raider impression.  No one who is purely intellectual will pride themselves on an impersonation of a Star Wars character in Star Wars:  Episode IV:  A New Hope.  That is called geeking out.

Exhibit D:  Sometimes leaning against my friend is all I need.

Exhibit E:  I like to laugh convulsively with little to no provocation.  Sometimes I have an accomplice, but not always.  The word "asparagus" once set me off for 5 minutes.  There was a documented recording, but I believe that laptop has since been wiped clean.

Exhibit F:  Endless pleasure abounds from my own twist on 2 Timothy 4:20:  "I left Trophimus sick in my lettuce."  Something tells me my friends' laughter is borne of toleration rather than amusement.

Exhibit G:  The fact that I list movies like The Time of Their Lives (1946) and The Pink Panther (2006) as favorites should speak for itself.  By that same token, quotes like "buy you a soda after the game" hardly call for Mensa and yet are hilarious to me.

Exhibit H:  Roller coasters make me squeal with delight.

Exhibit I:  Nature takes my breath away.  The ocean, clouds, butterflies lighting on pansies, rainbows, and the storms that lead to them.  They're all more than the human mind can find words to encompass them.

Exhibit J:  It's a happy point of curiosity that when something falls between two people, that both bend to pick it up, and will frequently bump heads or hands in the process.  There's almost always an apology.  Why is that?

I hope these examples clarify the situation.  However, I reserve the right to revisit the subject should any rebuttals arise.  Until that time, you might say the defense rests.

Eleanor and Cardboard

"Do one thing everyday that scares you." -Eleanor Roosevelt

I was having dinner at a friend's house, and I saw the quote on a refrigerator magnet.  What would happen if you did do one thing everyday that scared you?  What would happen if you did something even once a week?  We both agreed that soon you would either be afraid of nothing . . . or dead.

So avoiding death, and consequently ruling out skydiving without a parachute, how do you pursue this?  What does it mean for you?  A million common fears probably come to mind.  Public speaking, flying, clowns, snakes, dancing when someone else is in the room.  Anyone cringing yet?  Eating alone in a restaurant, voicing an opinion, getting a tattoo, lacking a boyfriend/girlfriend, spiders, cutting/coloring your hair.  How about now?  Revealing a secret talent or skill, relinquishing control, heights, vanilla ice cream and peanut butter.  Getting the picture?

Where snakes are an unusual texture to one person, and peanut butter is a natural complement for vanilla ice cream to another, the same individuals face serious hurdles with dancing and solo-restaurant-going.  In those pursuits, the person suddenly suffers bouts of anxiety.  Maybe, just maybe, fear of failure is the prime motivator in what scares us, and the rest of the time our fears are rooted in the unknown.

Because as we're all aware, the known universe does not extend beyond ourselves, and when we don't meet our expectations of success, that universe self-destructs.--Oh, wait, that's just our misconceptions evaporating.

Imagine a documentary as narrated by an alien from the galaxy of Andromeda:

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Earth, where humans consciously and unconsciously place themselves and all others inside cardboard boxes.  They put the lid on the box but don't seal it with so much force as scotch tape, poke a few air holes in the top to provide some token ventilation, and call it good.  Never mind the fact that cardboard smells atrocious as soon as the rain comes.  Never mind the fact that they can break cardboard down easily enough.  No, they squat in their little cardboard boxes, afraid to step, crawl, jump out and do the little thing that scares them.  Because smelly as it is in there, it's home, and it's known.  'I know this universe,' they say to themselves, as they peek through the airholes at their fellow prisoners.

"Occasionally, they grow curious or jealous of others' cardboard prisons and abandon their original domicile in search of larger, more commodious confines.  Only to find the stench is only slightly altered by the higher quality corrugation. . . .  Back they trudge to their boxes, toting a sandwich board enscribed with their failure.  It reads, 'Attempted to break free of Box Theory.  Panic and fear administered in high dosage.  All systems equalizing.'

"Back they go.  Lid slides back into place.  They are home.  They are defined by closing themselves into what they will not do, will not try, and consequently will not fail.  They are not afraid because they are where they know they're known.  They are comfortable again, and others are theoretically comfortable with them here where they are known.  Others are not scared, and supposedly neither are they. . . ."

What then is this thrumming beat in our chests, this constricting sickness to our stomachs?  It is the curiosity that won't go away, no matter how much fear and panic is administered.  It is the desire to dance like nobody's watching, sing like nobody's listening, speak like nobody's judging.  It is the desire to be who we're meant to be, who we want to be.  In short, it is the desire to do the thing that scares us.

Ladies and gentlemen, we may step out of the box.  The lid was removed some time ago.  The damp boxes will collapse and self-destruct without you to support them from the inside.  Come on, you can do it.  Get the tattoo if it's what you really want it.  Cut your hair; 99% of the time it grows back.  Let go of the reins for a moment.  Don't be afraid to be alone.  Maybe enjoy a flavor you haven't tried yet.

Do the thing that scares you.

Balancing Act

Life's not fair, and life's not easy.  And do you want to know why?  Because it's all a balancing act.

Standing on stable ground versus juggling on a highwire.
Ambition versus aggression.
Enjoying food versus overindulging.
Turning the other cheek versus being a doormat.
Frugal versus spendthrift.
Being a leader versus being a despot.

Where to fall on the extremist spectrum?  Or perhaps to settle in the extreme edges on a spectrum of mediocrity?  How do I achieve balance in myself as people around me strive to achieve their own?  How do we balance each other, equalize one another?

Tact versus little white lies.
Healthy confidence versus inflated ego.
Letting people live their own lives versus standing by while their lives derail.
Fundamentalist versus noncommittalist.
Cautious versus killjoy.

I took a theatre arts class once called simply "Movement."  One of the warm-up exercises we did at the beginning of each session was a deceptively simple one.  Stand with feet and legs pressed close together, arms down at your sides.  Now, rise up on your tiptoes, as high as you can go.  Don't waver; stay steady.  When Mark the professor walks through the ranks of his students and softly nudges the small of your back, don't lose your balance.  Don't step forward or raise your arms.  Make the most imperceptible shift in balance so that you can maintain the stance indefinitely.  We could never predict when we'd put our heels back on the floor.

Impetuous versus carpe diem.
Curiosity versus nosiness.
Assuaging curiosity versus TMI.
Living versus existing.